


There Is Fire In My Blood

by Interrobang



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fully Realized God Of Blood Zagreus, Hair-pulling, M/M, Post-Canon, Trans Zagreus (Hades Video Game), i don't know how to write a slow burn but i'm trying here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28856457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: Theseus has died at the demon's hand hundreds of times, and each time is the same. His physical form resets to its default each time he is killed in the arena: armorless, unadorned, and his hair long and flowing against his shoulders. Yet this time, as the demon himself greets Theseus at the mouth of the river Styx, something dawns on Theseus: the demon may in fact be a god. And it shakes him to his core.
Relationships: Theseus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Multiple people have posted with this idea that Theseus kind of defaults back to what he was when he first showed up in the underworld in the prime of his life-- with long hair haha. And I just got this idea about post-canon, you know, Zag still fighting him each time to get up the surface. Zag's powers start to really manifest, and it just...hits Theseus that maybe he was wrong. And that's really pretty hot.

Theseus emerges from his impermanent death as if from a long, deep slumber. Washing up on the Styx’s shores is never pleasant-- he aches, both body and pride, from the wounds he sustained to get him here-- but it is reassuring to know that he is still afforded the privilege of regeneration rather than a truer, lasting disbursement to the cosmos.

He stands on its shores, splashing through the crimson waters for long moments, his chiton-- also miraculously cured of its cuts and tears-- dragging behind him in his wake. He is armorless, as is usual, and he knows without looking in a mirror that he has, for all intents and purposes, once again reset to the form he took when he first passed into the underworld.

He is in his prime now, as he was not at the time of his death. His body is as chiseled as always, lean and deeply tan from hours under a sun he will never see again. He feels slack, his skin dry without the anointment he regularly applies in his usual routine around Elysium. And his hair...

His hair sways around his face and hangs down against his shoulders as the Styx drips away from its strands, leaving it soft as featherdown and the rich gold of warm honey. Theseus has always been rather proud of his hair, though he prefers to keep it off his face. Countless times now he has asked Asterius to assist him in cutting it to his liking after he respawns, and it is always a tender moment; the trust between two warriors is best displayed in baring one's throat to another with a knife, after all, and Theseus trusts Asterius with both his life and his body.

But today Theseus is not alone in the arrival hall. Today the demon sits on the steps leading out of the mouth of the Styx as if waiting for him. As it was he who sent Theseus to his place, Theseus is not exactly pleased to see him.

"Fiend," Theseus says as greeting, and it comes out more tiredly than he'd meant. He clears his throat. "Monster that you are, do you wait here to taunt me even after you have taken your victory?" He scoffs. "By dishonest means, no doubt."

The demon rolls his eyes. "Of course you would accuse me of cheating even after so many victories," he mutters. "But no. Asterius sent me to look for you."

"Keep my beloved friend's name out of your m--" Theseus starts, but he shuts up at the demon's expression: it is grim, drawn down and lacking the teasing, ready-to-fight look it usually does. "Why has he sent you here?" He frowns as his thoughts begin to process. "For that matter, you slew Asterius before me. How did he send you here to me if...?"

Zagreus's mouth tightens into a thin line. "I did kill you both, yes. Asterius respawned several days or nights ago. He'd wondered where you ended up."

"Days..." Theseus startles. Asterius would not have been alone, surely. As much as Theseus would like to entertain the notion that he and Asterius were inseparable, they did have other shades to converse with besides each other. But to have been missed so long that Asterius had asked the demon of all people to look for him... "This can't be _that_ unusual," Theseus said. "The Styx is a river like any other; the flow must slow from time to time."

The demon shakes his head. "Rarely, unless the Fates are pulling strings again."

"Hm." Theseus shakes his head, already finger-combing his hair out of his face. It is fine and soft, true, but also impossible to keep orderly. He sweeps it out of his face; it falls back mere moments later. He will have to ask Asterius to cut it for him as soon as he gets back to their chambers. "Well, I am here, whole and hale as usual." He pauses, taking in Zagreus's subdued expression. "Don't tell me you, of all creatures, were worried about me."

"Of course not," the demon scoffs. But the way he says it is a little too quick, a little too dismissive. Theseus smirks, though he keeps his eyes cold.

"I am touched," he says, laying his hand over his heart. "That even in your hollow chest you found a shred of compassion for me, the exalted warrior you have thrown into the throes of death in an endless cycle of blood and rent flesh and humiliation." He spits in the demon's direction. "You fight well, but your pity sweeps away the honor of it."

"Oh, for--" the demon throws his hands up. "I was _concerned,_ you dolt. Besides, I didn't do this for you. I did this as a favor to Asterius. He's been worried sick about you."

"Of course _he_ was, but you? Don't make me laugh," Theseus says, drawing back. "You! You trick the gods into bestowing you unearned favors to escape this place as no shade should. _This_ is our place, demon, not the surface above."

"My name is _Zagreus,_ and _I_ am as much a god as those whose favor you regularly call for," the demon spits. He stands to his full height, and from his placement at the top of the steps-- Theseus suddenly realizes that he is still in the pool-- he looms, ever so slightly, over Theseus. "The underworld is where I am from, but why must it be where I stay? _You_ travelled the world when you were alive, and now you get to go wherever in paradise you wish. Why should I be restrained to the House and parchmentwork for eternity?"

Zagreus has killed Theseus hundreds of times. Has _escaped_ hundreds of times. Each time they fight the man is more capable, more skilled, more discerning in the risks he takes, harder to wound and harder still to evade. Theseus knows this. He had thought him a runaway shade at first, but now Theseus is faced with a dawning truth: this daunting being standing before him, one eye the same jewel green as the recently-returned queen's, the other the coal-red of the lord of the underworld himself, may _actually_ be a god.

Of _what,_ Theseus does not know, and does not _want_ to know. Yet he finds himself spellbound as he looks up at the demon-- at the _god's_ countenance and feels his heart thrum harder in his chest, his blood swirling dizzyingly through his veins. His breath comes short. His mind feels like it has been opened to a secret he never wished to know.

He fights the subservient flinch that threatens to shake his body, and lifts his chin in rebellion instead. His hair falls like a golden curtain around his face as he does so. But his eyes are steady, staring into the mismatched gleam of the god's gaze in front of him.

"I wish you well, then, godling," Theseus says, as coolly as he can. He sweeps past Zagreus, clapping him once on his shoulder-- and oh, Zagreus is taller than him like this, if only by perhaps half a hand. "Next time we fight you will find your place is likely at the mouth of the Styx once more."

And he sweeps away.

Once out of sight, he shakes. His body burns, trembling against his will; his blood still rushes hotly through him, but it is no longer the fierce hatred or frustration of an insignificant challenger taunting him that warms his face.

No; this is the heat of a close, personal encounter with a _god,_ fully realized, and Theseus is overcome by it. His body throbs, every inch of him oversensitive the way it often is in battle or in the midst of a passionate engagement. How has he not noticed this singing of his nerves around Zagreus before?

He huffs, squeezing his hard cock once. He will take care of this when he is alone in his exalted chambers again; it would not do to be caught by the more usual greeter at the mouth of the Styx in this state. And so he hurries away, thoughts spinning almost as hard as his pulse pounds in his ears. He pleasures himself without much thought about its source and then does not delve any deeper into that line of consideration for a long, long time.

Until the next time Zagreus seeks him out. Next time, it is unavoidable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of got away from me, so each chapter is progressively longer lol.

Theseus has plenty of time between that death and the next. Zagreus, it seems, has been less inclined to leave the underworld now that he has his mother home to talk with at length. The urgency has left him a bit, and it is reflected in his demeanor when the god next comes through the arena.

It’s been long enough that Theseus has had time to put himself to rights with a bath and bit of grooming, and even to lounge around with other shades and rest a long while, basking in Ixion’s light and in the soft shade of the many trees throughout the Fields.

The knowledge that he has firsthand fought— and even bested, at times— a god, however minor, sits heavily in his heart. It makes him uneasy, to know that he has laid his hands directly on the body of a deity, felt the heat radiating off him, even been influenced by his aura.

He has not had time to discuss it with Asterius as more than an offhand comment. It feels somehow like something he should keep to himself.

Theseus tries his best not to let the knowledge cause him to falter in his convictions. No matter Zagreus’s reasons, Theseus has a job. He still hasn’t quite puzzled out what exactly Zagreus is the god _of_ yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. Perhaps he is something dangerous to protect the living from, and that is why Lord Hades tries to hamper his escape to the surface. Perhaps he is a prisoner, like Ares once was of the Titans, and he is to be kept here as a prize.

Regardless, Theseus does his duty. He fights valiantly, with his brother-in-arms at his side, and gives every ounce of strength and willpower in his body to stopping the fiend from making it past their arena.

On this particular occasion, Zagreus takes down Asterius first, as he so often does, pinpointing minor gaps in the minotaur’s armor that give just enough of an opening for an arrow to efficiently soar into flesh.

And then it is just the two of them.

“Again you come to test me,” Theseus growls. Sweat beads on his brow, the dirt of the colosseum floor clinging to him in a dry coat. “When will you learn?”

“When will _you_ learn?” Zagreus counters as he nocks another arrow. His eyes gleam with the bright shine of a marksman’s gift, a boon from Artemis no doubt. “I need to get out there. I need to see what the world has to offer.”

“And I will do my utmost to prevent that,” Theseus returns grimly. He charges, knocking one arrow away, then another, with a twirl of his spear. The sharp blade of it sings lighting-bright as he thrusts it towards the god, nicking him ever so slightly along the ribs. Blood spills, a dark slash of it smearing along Zagreus’s ribs as he ducks to the side and rolls, shooting off another flurry of arrows.

But Theseus has trained long and hard these past so-many days or nights, and his grip on his shield is strong. He deflects them and lunges closer, thrusting his spear again— and again he catches Zagreus on its blade, slicing a chunk of meat off the god’s forearm. Blood flows— sprays, in fact, as Zagreus raises his arm to protect his throat and face— and suddenly Theseus is made aware of a burning across his body.

He looks down. Blood splatters over him, soaking into his chiton, steaming on his skin. It is unnaturally hot, nearly boiling where it bubbles on his body, and it causes a perverse thrill to run down Theseus’s spine. He tries to wipe it off so that it will not sting him; it smears on his hands, thick as guilt, viscous and tacky as it steams, the pain sharp and distracting. He stares, transfixed, as the blood thickens and dries in seconds, flaking off his hands.

He is captivated. His veins pulse; adrenaline floods his body. His mind seems to fly miles ahead of itself, while his body is statue-still, frozen to the spot.

And then he surfaces at the mouth of the Styx, the faint memory of pain in his throat where the mortal blow was landed.

He stumbles to his feet, slogging through the water to the exit and towards his place in Elysium. He is unadorned again, in simple draping robes, his hair long around his face. He dreads this youthful look each time; looking in a mirror sends him back to memories of his least favorite times in his life, when he was young and foolhardy and too pigheaded for his own good. He much prefers the more esteemed look he’s taken on in his afterlife.

Zagreus is waiting for him just inside the first of Elysium’s chambers.

“Hypnos alerted me the moment you washed up,” is the first thing the god says to him. His face is drawn down again, though he looks well-rested.

“Good of you to care; though I see you are back in the House as well. Did the surface not agree with you?” Theseus says with a half-hearted sneer.

“Not all berries are edible, as it turns out,” Zagreus says cheerfully enough. “But when I returned, I was told you were still out of commission.”

“...truly?” Theseus hesitates. One long trip downriver was one thing; but it seemed to be becoming a common occurrence. “Though I appreciate your concern, I am sure it is nothing but a coincidence. The tide ebbs and flows; time is strange here.”

“I’m not so convinced,” Zagreus says. “I did talk to Asterius; he was worried about you as well.”

 _As well._ Theseus ignore this morsel. “And he sent you to investigate?”

“Not exactly,” Zagreus admits reluctantly. “I felt bad. The other shades miss your...er, performances.”

He is referring to Theseus’s displays in the Arena. “Of course they miss their Champion! But some time discorporated is not the end; you will find I am heartily remade as usual.”

“Hm,” Zagreus says, unconvinced. His eyes run up and down Theseus’s body as if looking for lingering wounds. His gaze feels like a tangible thing on Theseus’s body, and it makes him shiver, straightening his spine a fraction more under the god’s scrutiny. His face flushes, the warmth of it unfamiliar in this context.

Theseus defiantly stares back, trying to pick out just what has been causing this effect. The boons are gone, no aura of godly blessing on Zagreus now. This must all be Zagreus’s influence.

He shall not dwell on it.

Theseus attempts sweeps past him, intending to head to his chambers. His hair is far too long, and he feels an intense need to bathe despite the strange waters of the Styx sloughing off his body to leave him dry and new.

“Wait.” Zagreus’s hand shoots out and grabs Theseus’s wrist. His hand is warm, calloused, and his grip firm.

“Have you died from anything else recently?” Zagreus asks. Theseus writhes in his grip, the touch scalding. “Just to compare the results, I mean.”

“Of course not,” Theseus scoffs, trying futilely to yank his arm away. Zagreus is stronger than he looks, and he already has the look of a mighty warrior. “No one can best me when I am fighting a fair opponent.”

“No accidents? Falling off a walkway, tripping down stairs?”

“Some of us are born with more natural grace than others,” Theseus says loftily. He pants; the heat spreads up his arm, warming his chest. His face heats.

“Have you considered...experimenting?” Zagreus asks after a moment’s thought. “Maybe…” He bites his lip. “Would Asterius, er, send you downriver if you asked it of him?”

Theseus bristles, the heat in his face now turning to anger. “I would _never,”_ he spits, suddenly furious. “Kind, gentle Asterius— I would _never_ ask him to do that. To force him to relive his most brutal fight, that which ended his time in the mortal realm— do you take me for cruel, as well as imbecilic?”

Thoroughly done with the man, Theseus tries again to wrench himself away, intending to put as much distance between himself and the wretch as he can.

“Wait!” A second hand grabs Theseus again, a rough palm against his bare shoulder. The god’s touch seems to sear along Theseus’s skin like a shock of lightning. He hisses, yanking his hand back, but Zagreus refuses to let go— he comes with him, pulled closer. They bump into each other, chest to chest, Zagreus looking at him levelly and his eyes are so— _so—_

The void of one with the light of a distant fire in the center, the other bright as spring grasses and just as hopeful; together they _see_ Theseus, through and through, with an unholy (or perhaps _too_ holy) clarity. Theseus’s heart leaps into his throat, and he gasps. He stumbles backwards. Zagreus moves with him, steadying him with a second hand on his shoulder, his expression one of concern.

“What do you _want_ from me, fiend who calls himself a god?” Theseus pants, half-collapsed in Zagreus’s grip. “Do you desire worship? Find yourself supplicants. Do you wish for an audience? Then look elsewhere, for we are alone here, with no one to witness my humiliation. Leave me be, I—” He gasps again, air not quite filing his dead lungs. Zagreus’s body sears against his own, almost unbearable in its heat. “I beg of you,” he says at last, weakly.

Zagreus lets go of him like he, too, feels the brand of their skin pressed to melding, and steps back.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, seeming startled at Theseus’s outburst. “I— didn’t mean to, er— just, sorry,” he finishes at last. “Go back to Elysium. I’ll do more research on my own. But Theseus—” And here he pauses again, his stare intense enough that Theseus finds himself giving in to the urge to flinch away this time. “The fact that you take longer and longer to emerge from the Styx each time is...concerning.”

“Spare me.” Theseus takes a deep, unneeded breath, sweeping his hair away from his face. It falls around his ears, the soft waves of it tickling his chin. “I have survived this long in this place, as I was due after the life I lived. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

But then Zagreus does something unexpected. He reaches out again. His movements are carefully telegraphed, letting Theseus see him coming. He tucks a lock of golden hair behind one of Theseus’s ears, the very slightest touch of the back of his hand stroking down Theseus’s cheek.

Theseus turns away, unable to bear the intensity of that stare again so soon. “...Thank you for your concern,” he mumbles at last.

And with that he stumbles away, hurrying to his chambers to restore himself to the glory he feels he should display. He leaves Zagreus at the entrance to Elysium alone, standing more still than Theseus has ever seen him, his stance slack. And if he sees a faint flicker of worry on the god’s face, he waves it away as a trick of the glimmering low lights of this place.

His afterlife in Elysium is a blessing, earned by a life of deeds not altogether noble, but bestowed by the gods nonetheless. And yet, in paradise though he may reside, he finds himself troubled.

Perhaps Zagreus has a point about his slowing emergence from the Styx. Perhaps there is more at play here. Perhaps he is fading, losing his lust for the afterlife after so many defeats.

He shakes his head to clear it of the traitorous thought. Never. Not while he is the Champion, and not while there are still battles to be enjoyed. Not while there is still glory to be won.

But the idea lingers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theseus has some thoughts; Zagreus shows off a new skill.

The troubling thought does not fade from Theseus’s mind, even after days or nights of repeated attempts to banish it. He fights and revels with Asterius; he attends feasts and grand parties. All of it is wondrous and wonderful, and Theseus should be content.

But the idea that somehow he is not enjoying himself _enough_ lends a sour tinge to it all. Can a shade even truly become tired? Can a shade ever fade entirely?

There are few people Theseus would ask for advice, but the exalted warrior Patroclus seems a wise fellow, if a bit of a recluse and frequently recalcitrant. But the shade seems, more than anyone else in the paradise they reside in, to have contemplated what it means to be dead and yet undying.

“What an honor to find you alone, sir!” Theseus booms as he enters the chamber Patroclus has claimed as his place of contemplation. It is emptier a resting place than Theseus himself would prefer, but it seems the kind of peaceful retreat nonetheless. Patroclus looks up at him from his seat by the gently bubbling waters of the Lethe, his gaze steady and a touch wary.

“Do you need something, King?” Patroclus asks at last, his tone wry. He does not stand to greet Theseus, or even look like he considers doing so. Theseus wills the ire in his voice to be quelled.

“I do,” Theseus confirms instead. “Something only one of your proclivities could assist me with.”

“My proclivities,” Patroclus repeats slowly. “And those are?”

“Contemplation of the tides of death and the flow of time,” Theseus says. “Not that you are morbid, exactly, but, er, you do seem to have a grasp on this kind of thing.” He hesitates now. Patroclus has never outright said it, but it is clear he does not enjoy Theseus’s company overmuch. Still, Theseus must soldier on. “I have a quandry to run by you.”

“Hm.” Patroclus leans back on his hands, lowering himself back to lay in the grass. He twirls a daisy in his fingers, staring at its waving petals absently. After a moment, Theseus drops down to the soft grasses himself, crossing his legs and nervously plucking at the blades that tickle his calves.

“Yes!” He proclaims, just to have somewhere to start. Yet he hesitates again when he thinks of what he must say. “You once considered drinking the waters of the Lethe.” It is not a question, yet Patroclus’s silence is confirmation enough. “Do you know of any other ways to wipe a memory clean? Or...for a shade to lose their mortal memory?”

“There is always the fading of time,” Patroclus tells him. He looks at him with his soft brown eyes, his gaze dark and deep. He seems curious, but does not care enough to ask what this is about. Theseus shivers; he did not come here to be known, but he fears he has been found out nonetheless. “Surely you have seen the shades less coherent than their freshly-washed-up cousins.”

Theseus thinks of the shades who hide deep in their cloaks, already having forgotten their mortal shape too much to extend beyond it.

“There are some who are _very_ tired,” Patroclus continues. “I am not so tired as them these days, not with my lover at my side once again, but there are times I have felt that exhaustion. And in those moments, it felt like a burden would be lifted if only I could lose who I had been, and exist only in the memories of others.”

“Those whose faces have been lost to history,” Theseus says slowly, understanding dawning. “And who lose themselves in return.”

‘

“Yes.”

Theseus is quiet after that for a long while. He watches the Lethe bubble by and wonders how many memories he lives on within now in the mortal realm, or if he has been purposefully forgotten.

Upon his return to his chambers, he is met by Zagreus himself. The godling looks out of place here, taller than most shades and brightly dressed amidst the cool greens and blues of Elysium.

“Theseus,” Zagreus says as greeting, nodding in acknowledgment. His eyes shine. He looks relieved for some reason, like he wasn’t sure Theseus would still be here. Theseus decides not to dwell on it.

“Sneaking where you should not be, eh?” Theseus says, stepping into a fighting stance. He is without weapon, but that does not mean he is entirely unarmed. “And now you steal even into my private quarters like a true villain. Have you come to assassinate me here instead of facing me bravely in the arena?”

“I haven’t come to kill you,” Zagreus says, frowning. “This time, at least. I don’t _usually_ intend to kill you, actually, but you won’t let me pass unless I do, so…” He shrugs, then waves his hand as if to dismiss the topic. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Talk to me?” Theseus frowns, but reluctantly steps out of his defensive pose. Zagreus moves forward, closing in on him, and again Theseus is struck by the heat— or if not heat, exactly, a radiating energy like a pumping heart— that he puts out. Even being this close makes Theseus’s heart race, his pulse pounding in his ears like a battle drum.

Zagreus looks around, starting to speak, but stops when he catches how the crowd has started to gather around them ever so slowly. The other shades have started to pause in their paths through the halls, a few casting glances at the two of them. Theseus can hear the gossip now: what does the prince of Lord Hades’ domain want with the Champion of Elysium, if not to destroy him in battle? No doubt word of this would spread quickly if they did not move away posthaste.

“Not here,” Theseus hisses. He shoves Zagreus through the next chamber, away from prying eyes and through the curtains into his private space. By some miracle of the realm’s construction, the curtains act as a true door despite their flutter, and the sound of the crowds outside are muffled if not cut entirely. “Well, reprobate?”

Zagreus rolls his eyes again, toeing away from Theseus to look curiously around the rooms. The room they are in now is a mere sitting room, long lounges and a fountain taking up the center of the space, tables with refreshments scattered about. One table simply has a pile of bottles of nectar, each neatly corked and ready for consumption whenever Theseus wishes. It is one of the things he loves about this place, which is always ready to please him. How could he ever tire of it?

“Strange,” Zagreus says at last, a smile creeping onto his face. Theseus ignores how it makes his heart skip off-beat for a second. “I expected something more...gaudy? Ostentatious? These are rather humble décor choices for you. Even my room is more ornate than this.”

Theseus bristles. He fights the urge to corral Zagreus towards his bedroom, where the furniture is more opulent, with furs and tapestries and gilded frescos surrounding a bed big enough for Theseus and several other occupants. This particular conversation does not call for that.

“Say what you need to say, wretch.”

“I have a theory,” Zagreus says as he pokes around at the interior of Theseus’s sitting room. He plucks a few grapes off one display, popping them into his mouth with a hum of enjoyment. He glances over his shoulder at Theseus as he places a second bunch in his belt pouch, presumably to snack on later. “You might not like it, though.”

“Like it or not, let me hear it,” Theseus demands.

Zagreus rolls his eyes but flops down on one of the lounges, putting his feet up on the edge of the stone basin of the flowing fountain in the center of the arrangement. His toes hiss as the water occasionally splashes against them, sending tendrils of steam into the air.

“Well...I’m a god.”

“Yes…” Theseus says, nodding slowly. “As you have said many times.” He does not note that he has finally accepted this statement as fact, and not a grand lie. If it is true now, it was always true.

“And you are...not mortal, exactly, but not a deity either,” Zagreus continues. “Have you ever fought other gods?”

“Not so,” Theseus says, shaking his head. “Not hand-to-hand, as you and I have battled. Not skin-to-skin, our blades kissing each other’s throats.”

“As blades do,” Zagreus adds nonchalantly. He rubs the back of his head, fingers nervously combing through his unruly hair. Theseus finds himself watching the play of his muscles, the flush on his fine cheekbones as he does so. “Well, that’s the basis of my theory. I am a god, and you aren’t, so something funny is happening when I kill you.”

“Why did it not begin a hundred deaths ago?” Theseus asks. “Or three hundred? A thousand? I have all but lost count of the times I have fallen by your hand. It was not until recently that the delays began.”

“And it wasn’t until recently that I’ve really started to make a difference on the surface,” Zagreus says. “I…” He looks embarrassed, but somehow also slightly proud. Theseus stares, waiting for him to continue. “I may have begun gathering a following.”

“A following?” Theseus prompts. “Surely not.” Even he cannot tell if he is being sarcastic.

“I’ve helped a few mortals out with minor deeds, a few injuries, maybe a couple small quests; and then when I return to the surface on my next trip, they’re old, and their children’s children have passed down tales of my presence in their ancestor’s life into legend. I don’t know what to do with their praise, so I take their gifts, but…”

“You are uncomfortable being worshiped?” Theseus cannot help it: he bursts out laughing. “What kind of god _are_ you?”

“It’s not funny,” Zagreus says, scowling at Theseus’s continued howls of laughter. “Dusa had to set aside a whole area in one of the less-used auxiliary chambers for the offerings that have started showing up willy-nilly after my surface trips.”

“Unbelievable!” Theseus exclaims, wiping a tear of mirth from one eye. “You truly are the worst. Ah, that made my day. Thank you, Zagreus, apparent god of jesters and foolishness.” He sighs, and sprawls opposite Zagreus on the end of the long lounge.

 _“Regardless,”_ Zagreus continues, clearing his throat. His face is flushed with embarrassment, the ruby tone of his cheeks nearly matching that of his signature chiton. “I think I may have more sway than I used to with— with the flow of things around here, if you will. If you’ve only died by my hand, then I cannot be sure, but I don’t think the same delay would happen if someone else were to send you downriver.”

“Well, I am not willing to test it,” Theseus declares. He crosses his legs. He is finely oiled today, and his skin slides effortlessly against itself as he does. The air is refreshing as always where it flows through the open window onto the terrace outside, and Ixion’s light is warm despite its chilling source. He feels good. He feels rested, and reassured that it is likely not his lack of lust for the afterlife that is causing him such trouble. “Besides, what proof do you have that your powers have truly grown? Gifts are a pittance of a display; even I get offerings from the superstitious from time to time.”

“Well…” Zagreus turns to him on the lounge seat, his expression unsure, though smugness dawns over its finely-chiseled planes. “I can do this now.”

He cups his hands, and as Theseus watches, spellbound, a swirling orb appears in his palms. It’s not overly large, not like some of the other ones Theseus has seen, but it is a boon nonetheless. It spins with liquid-like physics, the iridescent shimmer of its eddies swirling deep garnet with bright ruby, rich and viscous. Blood, clearly, fresh and full of life. Its aura is nearly black, emanating heavily in such a way that Theseus is sure it would encase him entirely if he were to only reach out and take it.

In fact, he finds his hands reaching forward as he stares in awe. The aura is almost palpable, a physical thing that washes over him like the heat of a true sun he hasn’t seen in gods-only-know how long. It’s the heat of a babe in his arms, friend at his side, a lover in his bed. It washes up his arms, warms his cheeks, burns through his chest. Inexplicably Theseus finds arousal dripping golden down his spine like ambrosia, settling low in his gut as pure, unrestrained _want._ Zagreus leans forward in his seat, as if offering the boon to him, and Theseus— Theseus is suddenly unsure of all but one thing: he needs to touch.

He needs to touch _Zagreus_. He needs to feel that ungodly, too-holy heat searing into his own skin. He needs to worship appropriately with tongue and lips and anything else Zagreus would take from him. He wants to offer himself up wholly, to be burned in the altar of his adoration until nothing is left—

He blinks. The boon is gone, its light winking out to leave shadows at the edges of Theseus’s vision, the contrast as stark as going from a dark cave to bright midday sun.

“You see?” Zagreus says, and oh, he’s _close,_ his face mere inches from Theseus’s own and split with a grin. Theseus startles, scrambling back to his own half of the chaise, then jumping up on unsteady legs.

“I must leave,” Theseus gasps. He doesn’t flee, but he does step _very_ quickly, leaving Zagreus behind in his quarters unattended, but— it doesn’t matter. Theseus must _go._

He runs. To find solace, to find Asterius, to find peace in the paradise he has _earned,_ with no intrusions from burgeoning gods. And though Asterius takes the news of Zagreus’s growing fame up above with good cheer, he takes less kindly to the idea that the god’s rising power means Theseus may be in danger. He, too, wants to test it in some way, though he is not sure how they would go about doing it.

As long as he does not have to admit to any god what he felt in the light of that boon, Theseus is happy to test any plan provided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zagreus: Look what I can do! :D  
> Theseus: HOOWEEEE MAMA


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, folks! Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :)

The alert that Zagreus is on his way into the arena comes while Theseus and Asterius are enjoying a restful soak in one of the bathing chambers. Asterius does not seem surprised, and only encourages Theseus not to delay. They go to dress themselves and don their armor, but before they can even sweep into the arena they are accosted. Zagreus— dogged by a few of the more persistently loyal shades that seem to be trying to prevent him coming in— pushes his way into their ready room with a sigh of relief and a smile that Theseus thinks hides the true power he now knows the god holds.

“Villain,” Theseus says as a greeting, but there’s a tinge of nervousness to it that he doesn’t like, so he tries again. “You would force your way into places you do not belong, eh? Looking for a way out of our fight?”

“I’m not here to fight,” Zagreus says. His eyes are bright with no doubt another hare-brained idea. He nods at Asterius, then to Theseus, his countenance turning more serious. “You should sit.”

“Why?” Theseus asks suspiciously, the urge to be contrary unkillable. “You may say what you need to say while we are of a height, and no lower.”

“Sit, my king,” Asterius says in that low rumble of his, and gently pushes Theseus onto one of the benches they have waiting nearby for when the fiend takes his sweet time coming into their domain.

“We’ve been talking,” Zagreus says, eyes scanning between Asterius and Theseus. “We need to test this. I don’t want to—” Zagreus pauses as if searching for the right word. “Not kill you. Worse than that.”

“The short one is afraid you will be destroyed in a more permanent fashion if you continue to fight him to the death each time.”

“Nonsense,” Theseus says. He’s been doing some thinking about this as well after all, and he has theories of his own. “He kills you all the time, Asterius, and you have not had the delays I have. Nor for that matter have any of the others he regularly encounters on his way out.”

Asterius snorts. “We have theories about that too.”

“You’re affected by me,” Zagreus says simply, and he at least has the sense to look embarrassed about it. “By my, er...influence.”

“I— you—” Theseus splutters. “That’s ridiculous,” he settles on at last. “You are a god of a sort; I would hardly be the only one affected.”

“My king,” Asterius says at his side, and his tone is soft, like he is breaking bad news. “There is no shame in red-blooded attraction.” His hand on Theseus’s shoulder is reassuring— the tapestry of their bond, no matter any additional needling, is still woven tight. Theseus relaxes marginally.

“Our, er, _mutual recognition_ was a surprise to me as well,” Zagreus says, and now Theseus sees the flush flooding down his neck to spready patchy across his chest.

“But we need to know for sure that it is his divine influence causing your delay in reforming.” Asterius shifts behind him, and his heat is a blessing that unknots the muscles holding Theseus’s spine so rigidly. “Zagreus—” And oh, how strange it is to hear the god’s name in Asterius’s mouth unmodified. “I have offered my help. However, it may be unpleasant for you.”

Theseus scoffs, leaning back and looking up into Asterius’s soft brown eyes. They gaze back at him steadily, long lashes sweeping down as he blinks slowly, a look of worry coming over his face. But his hand comes up to rest on Theseus’s throat as it often does, feeling his pulse steady under his large palm.

“If it must be violent, I will endure.” He looks back at Zagreus, confident that this will be a quick process. They will find some ridiculous means of death, and it will be over in a bit. “Show me your worst, fiend. When shall we do this? What manner of death have you arranged for me?”

Zagreus nods, grim, and looks to Asterius above him. “No time like the present. Asterius.”

“I am sorry, my King,” Asterius murmurs in his ear.

And then Theseus wakes in the waters, floating on his back, the faint memory of his crunching spine as his head twisted wrongly churning his stomach like whitewater rapids.

Unbridled rage fills him immediately. He jerks up in the pool, lurching to his feet as he gasps, spitting out any remains of the Styx in his mouth, swiping it off his face. His hair hangs limp around his face, once again too long, annoyingly sticking to his damp body even though the waters of the Styx slough off to leave him dry as he slogs through it. He stalks up the steps— past the door in the direction he would usually leave back towards Elysium. He runs barefoot into the halls of the House proper.

He’s not sure at first exactly how to enact this revenge. All he knows is that he must attack where Zagreus is vulnerable, as the god had done to him. 

He finds the small antechamber that seems to contain the offerings he’d mentioned; Theseus smashes indiscriminately. For some reason there are piles of onions of all things throughout the room, which he throws and kicks into a rustling red and purple tumble on the floor. He smashes pottery and throws carvings and spills the dozen goblets of wine taking up one table. Satisfied with his desecration there, he exits Zagreus's tiny shrine, looking for more to destroy.

The House is in a frenzy around him. He can hear the shades murmuring, the staff rushing about not sure what to do about him. Never has an exalted shade escaped the splendor of Elysium just to wreak havoc and rage endlessly.

Where else can he go? He thinks. The wretch had mentioned his bedroom once before. 

He stalks through several chambers before he finds what must be Zagreus’s bedroom. There’s a soft bed along one wall that looks ill-used, though neatly made and stacked with soft pillows. He rips its coverings apart, feathers flying everywhere. There are tapestries and prints hanging on the walls; he tears them down as well. He knocks over prizes from past fights and kicks over the desk, and is just on his way to spill what looks like a scrying pool, to do some _real_ damage, when Zagreus appears in the doorway looking alarmed.

“Theseus!” he calls out, and why does he look so surprised by Theseus’s rampage? What else would he have expected to see after that kind of hurt?

The _prince,_ Theseus thinks deliriously, has never had this kind of hurt bestowed on him. He has this comfortable home here, a loving family and friends who have never truly betrayed him. And does he even acknowledge it? No! He runs away to that which has never appreciated him, shunning those who love him. It makes Theseus’s blood boil.

He stands here, panting, hands on the lip of the stone basin for what feels like an eternity as he tries to calculate what next hurt would be most potent. His hair is wild around his face. There are cuts on his hands from the shards of pottery he’s thrown around, the smashed bone of conquests he’s trashed. He swipes sweat off his brow, and feels the blood smear in its place.

Zagreus stands there in the doorway, shocked, as he looks at the destruction Theseus has wrought.

“What are you _doing?”_ He asks at last, as if his betrayal hasn’t even registered.

Theseus roars, and launches himself at Zagreus.

Zagreus is not expecting him, but that does not mean he is unprepared. He yelps as Theseus bowls into him, trying to wrestle him away, but Theseus is determined. He kicks at Zagreus’s knees and punches his neck, knees him in the gut when he can, wailing on anything that he can make contact with. But Zagreus is a hair larger, and has strength imbued by his divine heritage. He grabs Theseus by the fabric of his clothes and tries to yank him away; all it does is pull the cloth off Theseus’s body as he wriggles further to get out of the god’s clutches. It devolves into them both half-clothed tumbling about the floor amidst rugs and stone and the remnants of things Theseus has destroyed.

And then Zagreus gets one hand on Theseus’s throat and _squeezes,_ pinning him to the floor, and Theseus gasps, stuck.

Zagreus’s grip on his throat nearly matches Theseus’s rage for how white-hot it burns. Theseus’s pulse pounds against temples so hard it should ache, but instead it drives Theseus on: he must make Zagreus feel the hurt he has given to Theseus a thousand-fold, so that he will never make that mistake again. He has died hundreds of times at Zagreus's hand, and yet never has he been so hurt.

Theseus’s muscles all tense, the anger in his muscles like sparks of forgefire as he shakes with the need to tear into the god before him. The _insolence,_ the lack of consideration— that he would make Asterius do such a thing, after Theseus had explicitly forbidden it—

“I called you _god_ , and you _betrayed me_ ,” Theseus spits, surging up to roll them over, his fists swinging wildly. He is losing his coordination with the blinding need to make violent contact, but he is still the Champion of Elysium, and he will not miss no matter how his vision blurs with angry tears.

“Theseus, wait, please—” Zagreus gasps, and oh, there was a time Theseus would have _loved_ to have heard him beg like this, held down and puny under Theseus’s power, but hearing it now is not _enough_.

There must be blood. Theseus can feel the need for it in his throat like a hunger akin to Ares’s influence, the need to bite, rip, _tear._ Yet Zagreus’s hands on him are iron-strong, his grip fiercely firm so that Theseus can get nary a scratch in from his position pinned on the floor.

“What is your _problem?”_ Zagreus demands. He’s panting too, sweaty and dirty as he uses his entire mass to pin Theseus to the floor. “I _told_ you we needed to test the theory.”

“You couldn’t have chosen _any_ other method?” Theseus spits. “Poison, trampling, electrocution? It had to be _Asterius_ delivering the killing blow?”

“You—” Zagreus dodges another flailing fist. “We had to know if a direct kill would trigger it. Asterius volunteered.”

“Lies!” Theseus spits. “He would never—”

“He knew you wouldn’t tolerate falling by a lesser hand,” Zagreus insists. “That you would be humiliated. He’s—” He grunts, spitting blood as Theseus slams his close fist into his jaw. “He’s waiting just inside Elysium for you—”

“He— what?” Theseus freezes, the boiling of his blood cooling to a low simmer. “And he is...not ruined?”

“He’s a little shaken, but he’s fine,” Zagreus reassures him. His hold on Theseus relaxes slightly as he sees the fight drain from Theseus’s body. “He wanted to wait for you, no matter how long it took, but then you surfaced right away.” He frowns, gnawing on his lip with an indecisiveness Theseus decides he hates. He watches blood drop from the split of Zagreus’s lip, working a red patch down the god’s chin and then—

And then it drips onto Theseus’s chest, like a splatter of lava, and Theseus burns again. He arches against Zagreus’s chest, his breath thick as steam in his lungs.

“So _what?”_ Theseus snarls, his breath sharp. He hisses as another splatter of Zagreus’s blood burns a line over his bare chest, bubbling against his skin before drying and flaking away. His mind sings with sudden energy, imbued seemingly by the god’s own ichor splashing down on him. “Now you come to gloat? That you hold more power over me now than ever before, that you hold the fate of even my _afterlife_ in your hands?”

“Oh, for—” Zagreus shakes him a little like a puzzle toy that just won’t make sense. “I’m not here to taunt you, you great lout. I’m not some pompous monarch who would gloat over the slightest advantage.” Theseus ignores the implied _not like you._

“Then what?” Theseus demands. He huffs, his breath still heavy, the quick _inoutinout_ of it making him lightheaded. His body demands that he _move,_ but he is frozen to the spot. His muscles ache despite their recent renewal.

"I wanted to make sure you washed up unharmed," Zagreus says, and it looks like it pains him to have to say it out loud. "I needed to know if it was my fault."

"So you came to face your sins? Your guilt, for playing nice with me only to actively attempt to sever my most sacred relationship?" Theseus can feel the bloodlust fading, replaced by more familiar indignation. "Why do you _care?"_

“I don't," Zagreus says too quickly for it to be true. "I just...I want— tell me I’m not reading this wrong,” Zagreus pleads, his mismatched eyes flickering over Theseus's face. “That— that despite your horrible, _inimitably annoying_ personality, you’re— affected by me, to some extent.”

“And if I say I am?” He asks, eyebrows raising in challenge. “You would influence me with your boons for personal gain,” he accuses.

“Blood and darkness, I wish I _could,”_ Zagreus opines, throwing his eyes heavenward as if begging for Olympian help. “They hardly affect anyone else. You’re the first person I’ve actually seen react to them in any way that could be construed as positive. Meg laughed at me when I showed it to her, said it reminded her of a wounded baby bat for how pitifully it moved. Than said looking at it made him nauseous.”

“Hmph,” Theseus says, fighting a satisfied huff of laughter. "Fitting, that you would be the weakest of the gods, no doubt to match your spirit. And now that you have my afterlife on the tip of your spear, you mean to humiliate me as well?" He laughs, but it sounds forced even to him. 

“Laugh all you want, King, but tell me you don’t want this,” Zagreus insists. His arms cage Theseus to the floor. “Say you don’t think about me.” His eyes are bright. The god licks his lips, tongue coming away red with blood. He leans down, and the space between his body and the cold stone beneath Theseus’s back is sweltering. Zagreus’s teeth are so white, so sharp, the points of them stained red as pomegranate arils. “Say you don’t like how it feels to know you’ve killed a god and lived to tell the tale.”

It is not a good first kiss. Theseus’s head still spins, his body in some kind of divine high as Zagreus’s mouth smashes into his.

“Ah—“ Theseus gasps, a moan ripping its way out of his chest unbidden as Zagreus drops his whole body flush against Theseus’s to grind their hips together, the heat of him stirring something in Theseus’s gut that is decidedly more urgent than his now-dying anger. “Fiend—”

“I don’t want to destroy you entirely,” Zagreus says, pulling back just enough to mumble against Theseus’s mouth. “But you make it so _tempting_ sometimes just to— to watch you suffer a little.”

“Nngh!” Theseus grunts eloquently. He plants his feet and rocks up against Zagreus, hoping to turn their positions— but Zagreus is heavier than he looks, and still has him pinned. “The horror of being attracted to _you_ is suffering enough,” Theseus mutters, but it is half-hearted, and ignored entirely by Zagreus in favor of another kiss. The kiss is as much tooth and tongue as it is actual lip, and in the midst of it Theseus takes another tongue-coating of blood; it stings down his spine like an electrical shock, sharp and exquisite. He pushes up into Zagreus, managing to sit up with a monumental effort.

A flood of pure desire runs down his spine in a sweet rush and he gasps, pressing up into Zagreus’s weight, and is astounded when Zagreus rocks down into him in return. His hands fly up to Zagreus’s hips; he is solid, hot where his clothes have been half-ripped away during their fight, and Theseus suddenly realizes he is no better-clothed.

“You would whore yourself out for a single worshipper?” he taunts. “I would expect no less.”

“For fuck’s— don’t make me regret this,” Zagreus growls, his hands wandering. His fingers tangle in long golden locks, yanking Theseus’s head back. He ducks down, biting hard on Theseus’s neck; Theseus cries out, but the pain is sweet, and the flood of endorphins that follows it sweeter still.

"Regret? " Theseus scoffs, even though his body thrums so sublimely it is hard to focus. "That's a new one from you. Would that you had displayed it earlier."

They grind against each other, Zagreus taking his pleasure in, Theseus thinks, the most godly display of power he’s ever _actually_ seen of Zagreus show of his own accord. He feels like he is being eaten alive by the mouthful, the surge of power through him making every line and cord of his veins pulse in time to the beat of the universe.

It takes a mere thought to reach down and rip the rest of Zagreus’s torn leggings open to reach his prize. And it is not what he expects— but it is still good, the thatch of coarse hair he finds split center with the wet line of Zagreus’s core, his slick little cock jutting proudly into Theseus’s palm. Zagreus grips his wrist and grinds against him, his eyes bright with want as he seems unable to stop himself from enjoying Theseus’s body— as he should, Theseus thinks proudly. If this god only has one worshipper, he should appreciate what he has fully.

He slips two fingers into Zagreus’s cunt and hisses at the heat of him, his passage sucking his fingers in deep, the squeeze of him enough to make Theseus’s cock twitch at the mere idea of being in that grip.

“Fuck, _Theseus!”_ Zagreus’s groan is rough, his voice hoarse with want when Theseus thrusts his hand as fast as he can, the obscene wet noises sending a shiver of want up his spine. 

It takes hardly a thought for Theseus to bare himself. He is already hard— cannot remember when it happened, but it was well before Zagreus so artlessly lay his body against Theseus’s own— and it is a relief to be touched at last. Zagreus pulls Theseus's hand away and sinks down on him like he has something to prove. And perhaps he does, because from then on he is relentless.

The slapping of their bodies together is obscene in this echoing chamber, the wet noises of where they join going right to Theseus’s hindbrain in the most rapturous way. It seems to last forever, each dizzying peak of pleasure cresting ever more urgently. Time passes. The house is muffled outside Zagreus's chambers, but Theseus is distinctly aware that there are no true doors in this place. Anyone outside this room could hear them. Yet the idea only makes Theseus shudder in delight; anyone who wanted to could see him at his worship of this terrible god.

Then Zagreus shudders, twists his hips off-balance for half a second, and Theseus’s cock slips out of him, slapping against his belly. Seeming hardly to have noticed, Zagreus rolls down against him, the slick drag of his lips with the faint coarse grating of hair enough to yank Theseus’s orgasm out from what feels like the depths of his pelvis.

He grunts once, a quiet “Nngh!” all the warning he can manage to give with his mouth occupied by Zagreus’s tongue, and then he’s coming, seed splashing over his belly and coating Zagreus’s thighs and jutting, twitching cock. Yet still Zagreus grinds urgently against him, his slick lips and the pulsing threat of his cunt a searing heat that threatens to melt Theseus like snow in the path of a lava flow.

 _“Ah! Zagreus—”_ Theseus gasps again. He’s oversensitive, not sure what else he can give in worship. The spill of his come over Zagreus’s groin and thighs is messy and thick— wanton, dirty, and made dirtier still by Zagreus promptly shoving Theseus's shoulders back down to the stone floor and clambering up Theseus's body to straddle his face when it’s clear his cock is no longer of any use.

“You must at least know how to do this,” Zagreus laughs only half-tauntingly when Theseus glares up at him. But the sight of the fat little cock mere inches from his mouth is tantalizing, the idea of debauching a god the most enticing Theseus has ever had. He suckles at the come-covered jut of Zagreus's cock, hands wrapping around the god's thighs to hold him closer. Theseus may not have been the most attentive lover in his former life, but he’s had half an eternity to learn, and he is quite proud of himself when Zagreus’s hands shoot to his scalp to tangle in his hair once more.

His hair, which is still long, and now wild from his rampage. Zagreus’s hands tangle it further, fingers twisting and tugging as Theseus sucks on his cock and laves his tongue against the wet seam of him, thrusting his tongue in where it is so hot he thinks he will scald his tongue.

Zagreus is sour and salty and bitter from the splattering of Theseus’s own seed on his tongue. The slick of him drips down Theseus’s chin, heady enough to make Theseus’s cock twitch valiantly where it lays softening against his belly. Theseus moans as Zagreus yanks on his hair and shoves his face ever closer, open-mouthed and panting against the soft press of tender flesh into Theseus’s open lips. He sucks for all he’s worth, milking Zagreus’s cock until he feels the god’s cunt pulse against his tongue, cock spasming in thick, full pulses against Theseus’s lips like he would spill down his throat if only he had the build for it.

His skull hurts. Zagreus’s hands are still tangled in his hair, now used to yank him away. Theseus feels drained, light-headed, like all the fight has been burned out of him, leaving him only sated and tired.

Eventually Zagreus climbs off of him, collapsing to sit on his disarrayed bed bare but for the smears of blood and dirt on his body. The bloodrush is fading from Theseus’s ears now, and he sits up to watch the god from his spot on the floor. They stare at each other for a long second before Zagreus shoots him a crooked, tired grin. Theseus finds himself mirroring it reluctantly at first, then guffawing loudly.

“At least it is not my own failings that delay my return,” he says as the laughter dies. “Only yours.”

Zagreus rolls his eyes, smile— dare Theseus say it— fond. “Maybe one day I’ll smite you truly.”

“But not today,” Theseus points out. He feels his usual cheer returning.

Eventually Zagreus stands again, setting himself to rights as much as he can. He offers Theseus a spare chiton (red, always red, and oh, that _is_ going to clash with the rest of Paradise, isn’t it?) to cover himself with on his way back to the gates to Elysium. The whole House seems to know what has transpired between them, but no one is brave enough to ask the reason for Theseus’s rampage.

(He does, however, pause to apologize to the lovely Maid Dusa, a most genuinely kind shade, the only one in this blasted House Theseus feels any fondness for, truly.)

Zagreus follows him back through the many chambers it takes to return to the mouth of the Styx and then towards the shortcut to Elysium. And indeed Asterius is waiting on the other side. The minotaur perks up with a snort, and Theseus is suddenly very aware of how they must smell to someone with superior senses.

"You are fine, my friend?" he asks after gripping the bull's arm in greeting. 

"Yes, my King," Asterius answers. And indeed he does look relieved to see Theseus restored and well. "My apologies for the deception. I take it you and the short one have come to a solution?"

"Perhaps," Theseus says. "You and I must discuss future battle strategy more in-depth, now that the fiend is growing his place in the pantheon."

Asterius snorts again and smiles at him, and suddenly all truly does seem well.

He is dead, but he is not fading. A god trusts him with its body. He has not been forgotten above, nor broken in spirit. There will be other contests, and he and Asterius will have to find other ways to do their duties to the House that do not end with Theseus taking a long trip downstream.

Perhaps he will have to learn to yield; perhaps it will not sting so much when he knows it is to someone who might, after all, be worthy.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter as @GoInterrobang if you want to get previews of what I write or see what else I'm up to!


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